


eden

by sweetlyblue (softlyblue)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam's getting married and he needs his godfathers!, Future Fic, M/M, Weddings, just a little doodle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 13:19:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18522352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlyblue/pseuds/sweetlyblue
Summary: Eden, like most things, is a cyclical concept.And at least her name is Edie. Close enough to be careful, but it isn't a re-run of the past, and that should be good enough for anyone.





	eden

**Author's Note:**

> im too excited about the show to hold it in. i rly hope it brings more people to the book and the fandom! in the meantime, here's my lil homage to everyones favourite immortal old men in love

It was a lovely wedding - everyone who attended agreed on that. The bride looked radiant and the groom only looked a little hungover, and mostly besotted, and the priest didn't doze off during the vows and nobody showed up wearing white.

The subject that people got a little muddled on were the two men - no, the couple - no, they were definitely just friends - oh  _ no,  _ I thought they hated each other - the two men, both dressed in suits quietly oozing expense, both aged between thirty and sixty, who sat at the back during the service and kept the groom's ear all through the boozy reception. Who were they?

 

When planning the guests, Adam let Edie do most of the picking and choosing. He just has his sister and his parents and the three of Them, who've grown up in most the same way he has (which is to say, not at all), and apart from that he hasn't got many people he's all that excited about inviting. Adam's always believed in quality over quantity, and anyway, Edie has a whole ocean of cousins that all need invitations. Adam just wants to get married.

“Anyone else,” Edie taps her pen against her dark lips, “Last call, babe. I'm going to the printers tomorrow.”

And Adam thinks of the pair of them, a little area of his mind he prefers to leave covered and cobwebby. “I suppose my godfathers,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “I haven't seen them since I graduated. It’d be nice.”

“Give them a chance to get out of the house, I suppose,” Edie puts pen to paper. “Names? Addresses? I don't think I heard you mention them before.”

“I'll deliver the invites, I think. When you're at the printers I'll pop round and see if they're at home.”

Edie brushes her long black hair from her face and smiles at him, and Adam remembers why he fell in love with her. She kisses him very softly on the forehead, and swishes past him to flick the kettle on. “You try and remember where they live, and I'll make the tea.”

Adam never forgot where they lived, although he isn't sure why he learned in the first place. All the - bother - happened in Tadfield, for him at least, and all the two of them did was come to him and yell a bit. (And fight an angel and a Metaton and some sundries, but that's all in the details.)

The bookshop is in London, one of those tiny little shops that open out onto itself, like the wardrobe in Kirk’s country mansion, or like the Doctor’s box. Adam went to Cambridge to read English, and he practically lived in these places, spending half his time flirting with whichever undergrad first-year was on the other side of the bookshelf, and the other half of his time reading first edition Dickens. Like a prick. They’re his favourite places. 

Oh, the  _ smell.  _ Adam looks at the sign, telling him the place is closed, and considers it for half a second before deciding it doesn’t apply to him. The opening hours here are weird anyway, like on Fridays, where fussy handwriting on a post-it tells him the shop opens at two in the morning and closes again at five. The door sticks a little on a heap of dust and a book being used as a draft excluder, and he wonders at the disrespect done to it before he sees what it is.  _ Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone -  _ well, okay, there could be worse things down there gathering dust. 

“Hello?” He calls, into the airy, dusty interior. He can’t see bookshelves, just books. He can’t see  _ any  _ furniture for books, in fact, not even windows, although the light that suffuses the entire place has to be coming from somewhere. Dust careens and cartwheels through the air, dancing disturbed when he flaps his hands through the worst of it. “Hello? Uh…. hey?”

He remembers their names, of course. Aziraphale and Crowley, one a mere agent of hell and one an actual Principality, although in his memory the two have blurred so much that he can’t remember which was which. They both seemed pretty human to him, at the time. 

“The shop is closed,” comes an irritable voice from the back of the shop, “Can’t you  _ read?  _ Otherwise why would you even visit a place like this… I should invest in a lock…” the voice deteriorates into irritated mumbling, and Adam leans against a nearby wall, waiting for something to happen to him. 

“Who  _ is  _ it, angel?” Another voice, from the back. A little deeper, and not coming any closer.

Aziraphale, the tubbyish one with the dainty hands and the dress sense of a posh grandfather, pops his head around a bookcase, and his face turns from mild irritation through to shock through to a sort of pleased bewilderment, all in the space of a moment or two. He smooths a hand over his breast pocket, and then pops it into the pocket of his trousers, as his expression settles on ‘happy but confused’ to face Adam. “Young man! I haven’t seen you in quite some time. A year? Two?”

“Five,” Adam says, grinning a little at how shocked the man looks, “Since my graduation, remember? Cambridge, oh-six? You brought the missus.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s eyes dart back towards where he’s come from, “Oh you  _ must  _ come and have a cup of tea. We haven’t seen you in so long, and I’m sure you’ve got plenty of news.”

“Yeah, I do,” Adam says, pushing himself off the wall by his shoulderblades and lurking after Aziraphale, following him through the stacks. That’s one thing about his heritage he’s never been able to shake - the ability to  _ lurk  _ as even Duke Hastur of Hell would have been hard pressed to beat. Comes with the territory, right? 

“Aziraphale,” comes the other voice, Crowley, “Come  _ back.  _ I don’t know what - oh.”

“We have company, dear,” Aziraphale says delicately.

“I can see that, I’m not blind,” Crowley’s eyes are free of sunglasses, and his yellow snakelike pupils sum Adam up in the blink of an eye.  _ Of course,  _ Adam thinks, and kicks himself for not realising before,  _ Why would he wear sunglasses? This is the other one. The angel one. He only has to hide them for humans.  _

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Aziraphale puts his hands on Adam’s shoulders, and presses him into a chair, “You sit down and tell us all the news.”

The back room of the bookshop is basically a kitchenette, but soaked in books and years and unchanging knowingness, like the very room itself has moulded around the angel and the demon that live there. Adam looks around, from the Bible and the Qu’ran stacked on top of each other next to the sink, heavily bookmarked, to the fridge magnets behind Crowley’s shoulder, which smell out  _ get milk  _ and  _ vampire pus,  _ among other things. “Nice place you have here,” he says. 

Crowley sags against his folded arms, all the guard leaking out of him like a popped balloon. “The way he keeps it, you’d think he  _ wants  _ it to fall down,” he says. “I’m forever chasing cobwebs out of corners. Those bloody spiders.”

And everywhere Adam looks, there are plants, perched on every available surface. Springing, wide green leaves, like hat-brims on stalks, bouncing full of life across the pages of open books. 

It’s easy to guess which one of them brings which. 

“How have you two been getting on,” he asks, leaning back in his chair and watching Aziraphale at the tea. Three cups, two without sugar, one with two spoonfuls. 

“Oh, good, good,” Aziraphale slides the sugary tea in front of Crowley, and as his hand draws through the air it presses lightly against the demon’s shoulder. “Can’t complain. Been a bit of bother in America recently, of course, and we’re only just back from our holidays. Took a few weeks in Vienna, take in the art, literature…”

“Music,” Crowley cuts in, and laughs at Aziraphale when he makes a face. An in-joke. “Just… carrying on. How are you, Adam? I doubt you’ve come here just to catch up.”

“Not really,” Adam says. He should have known they’d catch him before the ruse was even properly begun. “I have a date I’d like you to keep free, actually, if ever you could.”

When he slides the printouts over the table, still hot from where Edie handed them to him, Aziraphale claps his hands and Crowley stares, a faint smile on his lips. “A wedding,” the angel says. “A spring wedding! Oh, we’ll certainly keep that one free, dear. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“A wedding,” Crowley says. “Stunning. Who's the lucky lady?”

“She's called Edie,” Adam relaxes, settling into talk about his favourite subject in the world, “She's from Leeds, and she does art, and…” he trials off, realising he was about to say a childish  _ and I love her very much.  _ “She's amazing.”

“Young love,” Aziraphale beams. “Drink up your tea, young man. We'll get Crowley into polite society, yet.”

Crowley looks up at the angel and without the sunglasses hiding his eyes, Adam can see the love in them. 

(And he thinks, if those two have been able to keep this up for six thousand years, he and Edie can definitely see themselves happy for a lifetime.) 

 

“So they agreed, then?”

Edie’s driving, and Adam is sorting invitations into envelopes on the passenger’s seat, his fingertips all sticky with wax from the cheap stationers paper. “Of course they did,” he says, licking a papercut. “Those two are the soppiest men I’ve ever known in my life. They wouldn’t miss a wedding for the world.” 

“I can’t wait to meet them,” she says. Her dark hand changes gears, and the engagement ring there sparkles; cut glass, made to look like diamond so expertly that only he and she would ever know it wasn’t. “They must be important to you.”

“I thought they weren’t,” Adam says, staring out at the flash of passing headlights, “But every time something important happens to me, they’re there. Like a pair of magpies.”

“Two for joy,” Edie says, and turns in the road to home. 

 

And at the ceremony, nobody remarked - loudly, anyway - about the man in the dark suit and sunglasses, trying not to cry, and the man in the grey suit and very loud tie, dabbing at his friend’s - his - companion’s - cheeks with a handkerchief. 

And at the party, nobody saw them when they darted away for a snatched moment alone in the rose garden. 

Eden, like most things, is a cyclical concept, after all. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter is @sweetlyblue !


End file.
